


Steve Sucks at Matchmaking

by Kangofu_CB



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Has a Big Dick, Clint Barton is a dick sucking superstar, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, So done with stupid boys Natasha, Steve is not always the most observant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 10:38:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18071843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: Clint and Bucky are good friends.  They've been getting closer over the last few months, slowly easing into a camaraderie that seems easy and natural.All of that is fine, until Steve Rogers takes an interest.Meddling national icons are no joke.





	Steve Sucks at Matchmaking

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to Bucky Barnes' 102nd birthday and also my self-proclaimed Big Dick Bucky event. I made it before midnight my time, so it counts.
> 
> It's also an attempt at present tense writing, so that's been interesting. 
> 
> The title is absolutely at Clara's request, but I can't imagine I'd have come up with a better one.
> 
> The sausage joke is Michelle's fault, but I don't regret a moment of it.

“Hey,” Clint says, holding the spoon out under Bucky’s nose.  “Hey, try this.”

 

Bucky blinks up at him owlishly which, frankly, is hilarious.  The hypervigilant supersoldier Steve had dragged home to the tower had slowly but steadily been replaced by a quieter, more self-contained man.  This new Bucky likes to read cheap paperback science fiction novels and utterly destroy Clint at Mario-Kart, and he’s much easier to sneak up on.

 

“What is it?” Bucky growls, suspiciously.

 

Which, fair.

 

The stuff in the spoon doesn’t look all that great, but it fucking smells delicious, and besides, when has Clint ever steered him wrong?

 

Well, there was that one time with the Indian food, but that had been months ago, and Clint hadn’t known just how fragile Bucky’s digestive system was post-Hydra fuckery.

 

“It’s supposed to be gumbo,” Clint says, and he holds the spoon out again, hand cupped underneath it so he doesn’t drip anything on Bucky’s book.

 

The fact that he’s covered in flour and there’s grease smeared on his own shirt is irrelevant. 

 

Bucky does not look less dubious, but he obediently opens his mouth so Clint can shove the spoon in it.  It seems like half the contents end up on Bucky’s chin, which makes Clint snicker, but he helpfully wipes it off with his thumb while Bucky considers whatever it is Clint has offered him.

 

Clint looks at his hand, and the spoon, and Bucky’s considering face, before shrugging and licking the gumbo off his fingers.

 

“It’s good, right?” he says, grinning.  And it  _ is _ good, score one for Clint.  And his internet recipe, but whatever. 

 

Bucky makes a humming noise.  “Needs more hot sauce,” he says, turning back to his book.

 

“You need more hot sauce,” Clint mutters, but when Bucky’s attention is once again occupied, he adds a few more dashes to the pot. 

 

“I’m plenty hot,” Bucky says mildly, and Clint snorts but doesn’t argue. 

 

Guy isn’t  _ wrong _ , after all.  

 

Across the room Steve is watching them with a bemused look on his face, one that changes into something that reminds Clint of how he looks during mission briefings, and some part of him finds that briefly worrisome. 

 

He forgets all about it for a while, though, caught up in stirring and simmering, and timing the pot of food.  At some point, Bucky wanders out of the kitchen, heading off to wherever else he spends his time when he isn’t slouched in the community area in a hoodie, like some kind of extremely good-looking gargoyle.

 

Clint suddenly remembers Steve’s strategic style when he turns around and nearly drops the pot, because Cap is sitting at the bar with a strange look on his face.

 

“So you and Bucky seem chummy,” Steve says, apropos of nothing. 

 

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, once he regains his grip on the pot handles and eases it onto a trivet on the counter. “We’re friendly enough.”  He eyes Steve suspiciously, wondering if he’s about to get a lecture of some kind about treating Bucky with less antagonism or more gentleness or some other bullshit Clint is pretty certain the former sniper doesn’t need. 

 

“That’s good,” Steve says, instead, and Clint blinks at him expectantly. 

 

Steve stares back.

 

The staring contest goes on for an uncomfortably long amount of time, long enough that Clint starts to feel guilty for something.  Anything. He’s not certain what, but the guilt is there. 

 

“You want some gumbo?” Clint tries, eventually, cracking first in a way that would make Natasha roll her eyes.  Considering Clint has never once won a staring contest with her, though, she really shouldn’t be surprised. If she were even here, which she’s not.

 

“Sure,” Steve says easily.  “What’s in it?”

 

“Uh… chicken and shrimp and sausage?” 

 

Steve seems to give this a lot more consideration than Clint thinks it warrants.  Maybe he doesn’t know what gumbo is? Clint opens his mouth to explain - badly, probably - but Steve interrupts.

 

“Do you like sausage, then?” Steve asks, brightly.

 

“Yeah,” Clint answers, eyeing him strangely.  “Doesn’t everyone?”

 

Steve makes a thoughtful noise.  “I’ve heard some people prefer… something other than sausage.”

 

Clint is starting to wonder where this line of questioning is going and, more importantly, where it’s coming from. 

 

“Well, it’s not gumbo if it doesn’t have sausage in it,” Clint declares, eventually, and heaps it into a bowl with rice and passes it to Steve.  

 

They eat in silence for a little bit, Steve going back for seconds after a raised eyebrow gets Clint’s nod of approval. When the bowls are empty, Steve returns to that same odd, strategic look on his face that makes Clint unaccountably nervous. 

 

“You seein’ anyone?” Steve blurts out, finally, taking Clint immediately aback.

 

“What like… you mean like dating?” Clint asks in bewilderment.

 

“Yeah, or whatever the kids are calling it these days,” Steve says, rueful.  Clint snorts. He’s nearing forty years old, it isn’t like he has any kind of clue what the kids are up to these days.  He hasn’t for a long time. 

 

“No,” he says, finally.  “My romantic history is more of a disaster than my regular history,” he admits.  “And that’s sayin’ something. I haven’t been on a date in forever.” He pauses, and wonders where this is heading.  “Why? You askin’?” There’s no way Steve Rogers - Captain fucking America - is asking him out on a  _ date _ , right?

 

Steve flushes a deep, embarrassed shade of red. “N- no!” He sounds a bit too emphatic for Clint’s liking, and Clint scowls.

 

Picking up on it pretty much immediately Steve rushes to add-  “Not that you aren’t datable, you’re fine, you’re... very, uh, nice. Handsome! I was- I was just wondering!”

 

Clint squints at him. Steve seems both embarrassed and chagrined, and Clint decides to take him at his word.  “Well if you’re looking for dating advice, you’d be better off talking to Wilson. He’s the only well-adjusted person here.”

 

Shaking his head, Steve buries his face in his hands.  “Nevermind,” he mutters, from behind his fingers. “I don’t know why I thought I should ask that.  Forget it.”

 

“Already done,” Clint says, cheerfully, as Steve stalks out of the room, flushed all the way up the back of his neck to his ears.

 

Well.

 

That was weird. 

 

*

 

Clint has just about successfully put Steve’s odd behavior out of his mind when a supersoldier-sized knock brings it all rushing back.  He’s relocated to his own floor, sitting on his couch in jeans and a Hawkeye t-shirt -- Kate’s merch, not Clint’s, gotta represent both Hawkeyes -- watching  _ Dog Cops _ .  The knocking makes him tense up, expecting the worst, and with a sigh, he walks across the room to open the door.

 

Bucky is standing there with a scowl on his face, brandishing  _ Mario Kart 8 _ like a weapon. 

 

“Whoa,” Clint says, taking a step back to let Bucky in, “bad day at the office?”

 

“Steve’s bein’ weird,” Bucky grunts, stomping his way inside. 

 

Clint blinks at his back.  “Weird how?” he asks, cautious, as he walks over to take the game out of Bucky’s outstretched fingers and load it into the Wii.  

 

Bucky shrugs as he settles himself into what’s rapidly become  _ his _ corner of Clint’s couch, wrestling his hoodie off to toss it on the unused chair.  He catches the wii-mote Clint tosses over his shoulder with practiced ease. “Just askin’ me stuff.”

 

Letting out a relieved sigh, Clint slumps onto the other side of the couch and flicks through the startup screen of the game.  “More memory shit?” Clint asks, sympathetic.

 

Steve’s always asking Bucky if he remembers this, that, or the other thing, and Clint imagines it must get old, especially because half the time the answer is no.  

 

“No,” Bucky grumbles.  He selects Wario when character options come up, and Clint realizes he’s in for a worse ass-kicking than usual.  Bucky usually at least  _ tries _ to give Clint a fair shot.  

 

Clint hurriedly settles on Donkey Kong and his personalized kart.  He’s gonna at least make an effort, here. “What then?” he asks, setting the course to randomized.  

 

Bucky grunts, but doesn’t answer, and they go a few rounds, Clint losing every single, and not even by a narrow margin.  After the sixth time Bucky knocks him off Rainbow Road in  _ one race _ , Clint tosses the wii-mote aside.

 

“Alright,” he says, “what’s got a bee in your bonnet?”

 

Bucky gives him a look, but he puts his controller down as well.  “A bee in my bonnet?” he asks skeptically.

 

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Clint clarifies. “Who pissed in your cornflakes? Who rained on your parade?  You’re obviously upset, what happened?”

 

Huffing a sigh, Bucky rolls his eyes, but he also grabs one of Clint’s throw pillows -- this one black with a red hourglass, and really, he should probably curtail his Avengers merch impulse buying -- and hugs it to his chest. 

 

“No one’s pissed in my anything, Steve’s just bein’ weird, I said.”

 

“You said, but you didn’t explain.  You just destroyed my ass in Mario Kart.  You wanna go down to the gym and spar a bit, blow off some steam?”  They didn’t do that much, Bucky afraid to let go, and Clint none to keen on getting his ass kicked by a supersoldier, but needs must and all that. 

 

“No,”  Bucky heaved another annoyed puff of air.  “He  _ was _ asking about stuff, you know, from back then,” Bucky finally admits, “just stuff about the girls I went with or clubs I visited, but I don’t remember any of it, not really.  It’s all just hazy, ‘cept for the bits with Steve. And then he started askin’ about you -- what we do together when we go off, whether or not you make me feel comfortable.” 

 

Bucky looks seriously annoyed but Clint --

 

Clint has got a growing sense of horror in his gut. 

 

“I don’t need Steve vetting my friends,” Bucky grouches, oblivious to Clint’s inner turmoil. “I’m fine, like I told him, and he can butt out of it.”

 

“Is Steve gay?” Clint blurts out, unable to help himself, and Bucky bristles up like a wet cat. 

 

“No,” he says, clearly gearing up for a fight he absolutely doesn’t have to have.  “He’s goin’ with that girl from Counter-Intelligence, what’s-her-face, Natasha introduced them.  Agent Angevin.”

 

Bucky still looks like a scalded cat, and Clint doesn’t know --

 

Oh.

 

There’ probably some kind of history there, Clint figures.  Something from the forties, or maybe from the war. Steve’d been about a buck twenty soaking wet, and prone to fighting.  Bucky’d probably dragged him out of a scrape or two where someone had made some implication.

 

“It’s just -- Steve was asking me weird stuff at dinner.  Acting funny about sausage and -- I dunno, then you came down and now I’m wonderin’ if he was trying to find out if I like dick!”

 

Bucky stares at him blankly for a moment before he starts laughing.  It starts out as his lips twitching, travels up to his face until his eyes are crinkled at the edges, and then his shoulders are shaking with poorly-repressed mirth, and then he’s laughing outright, leaning into the couch.

 

Overall, Clint thinks he’d find it real attractive, Bucky all scrunched up and happy and laughing, if it weren’t at his expense.

 

“Shut up,” he grumbles, scowling.  “It was a logical conclusion.”

 

This only makes Bucky laugh that much harder, until he’s wiping tears from his eyes. 

 

“Jesus,” Bucky says, when he’s got a hold of himself again.  “That was good, Barton. ‘Do you like dick?’ he says,” and then he’s off again, sniggering and snorting.  “Why would Steve care if you like dick?”

 

“I dunno!” Clint scrunches his face up.  “He wanted to know if I was seein’ anyone too.”

 

“Well?” Bucky says, his face still lit up with humor.

 

“Well what? Do I like dick, or am I seein’ anyone?”  Clint’s not going to give him the satisfaction of making this easy.

 

“Either.  Both.” Bucky says with a smirk, slouched in the corner of the couch in a t-shirt and joggers, looking easy and comfortable.

 

Clint rolls his eyes and reaches for his controller again.  “Sure, dick is great. Not-dick is great. I grew up in a circus, I’m not too picky about it.”  He chances a side-eye at Bucky, who’s watching him with interest but doesn’t look too weirded out by Clint’s admission.  “And I’m not seein’ anyone. I’m a dumpster fire, Barnes, don’t know if you noticed.”

 

Bucky picks his own controller back up and they play a few more rounds of Mario Kart, ones where Bucky doesn’t ruthlessly eradicate Clint at every opportunity, though Clint doesn’t manage to win more than one or two races anyway, before they speak again. 

 

“Well, what about you?” Clint says, finally, when they’ve played every available level of the game at least once.  

 

“Dating options are pretty thin on the ground,” Bucky says, shrugging his metal arm in explanation.

 

“It’s just an arm,” Clint says.  “Plenty of people have prosthetics.  Your face is alright. Besides, I was asking about the dick part.”

 

Bucky snorts.  “Most people with prosthetics don’t have an accompanying reputation of murderer-for-hire.”  

 

He pauses, and Clint wonders if he’s taken the joke a bit to far with the dick thing.  Clint’s just about to apologize -- it’s none of his business anyway, he figures -- when Bucky starts talking again.

 

“I dunno about the dick part,” he finally says, sort of quiet.  “Steve says I was a real ladies’ man, back in the day. History books do too.  But I don’t really remember that part. A girl or two, maybe. A little dancing, some kissing.  It’s all pretty foggy. Don’t remember any fellas, though, either.”

 

Clint regards Bucky for a second, thinking about what he’s said and what he’s not said, and has a terrible idea.

 

Not that Clint’s ever met a bad idea that he didn’t immediately embrace like a long-lost lover, but this isn’t quite the same as field testing a boomerang arrow in the middle of a pitched battle.

 

“You wanna find out?” he offers, smiling brightly. 

 

“Find out what?” Bucky says, looking more baffled than anything.

 

“About the dick part.”  Clint keeps grinning, but he gives Bucky a  _ very _ thorough once-over, exaggerating the leer and waggling his eyebrows.  

 

Bucky stares at him.

 

Eventually, Clint shrugs.  “Offer’s on the table,” he says, light and unconcerned.  “I’ve got a dick, if you wanna find out if you’re interested in ‘em, and if you’re not, well, you wouldn’t be the first person who’s got a hand down my pants and then decided they didn’t really want what they found there.”

 

Things had been funny in the circus, growing up.  They’d travelled as a group, and while some acts and people came and went, at its core the circus was almost like a family.  An extremely dysfunctional, unrelated family of weirdos and freaks, with very little outside influence. All of Clint’s firsts had been with someone associated with the circus, and, as a rule, circus people weren’t the least bit worried about things like gender norms or heteronormativity.  Clint had got his first blowjob from one of the aerialists in between acts, and he’d given his first to the sword swallower, who’d been more than happy to give him a few pointers in return. 

 

If Bucky wants to experiment, Clint is probably an ideal candidate.

 

“Yeah, alright,” Bucky says, a little while later, when they’ve turned off the Wii and switched to  _ Dog Cops _ , just as Sergeant Whiskers is about to catch the criminal of the week.  

 

“Yeah?” Clint says, giving Bucky a small smirk.  “Barton charm gettin’ to you or somethin’?”

 

“Or something,” Bucky agrees, rolling his eyes, but he  _ is _ giving Clint an evaluating look, one that makes Clint sit up a little straighter, stretch his arms out a little more along the back of the couch.   

 

There are a couple of false starts. Bucky leans forward towards Clint, then eases back again.  Reaches out a hand, then lets it fall to the side like he’s not sure what to do with it. Scoots closer before inching away.  

 

Clint rolls  _ his _ eyes. “C’mere,” he says, motioning with the hand on the back of the couch.  When Bucky reluctantly gets within easy grabbing range, Clint fists his hand in the front of his t-shirt and pulls him even closer, until Bucky is hovering over him.

 

It’s a little awkward and a little hot at the same time.

 

Christ, Clint hadn’t realized how into this he was gonna be when he made the offer. 

 

“Lemme know if I do somethin’ you don’t like, yeah?” Clint says, and when Bucky nods, he wraps his arm around Bucky’s back and pulls him in even further, until they’re only millimeters apart and Clint can feel Bucky’s breath on his lips. “Figure you’ll do better on top,” Clint adds.  “More control.” 

 

Bucky gives a jerky nod. 

 

Clint tilts his chin up, invitingly, but Bucky’s gotta make the first move here. 

 

Their first kiss is tentative, Bucky clearly uncertain and Clint restraining himself to whatever it is Bucky’s willing to give, until Clint lets his mouth go soft and pliant, a bare parting of lips, and suddenly Bucky is right there with him, making a small sound in his throat and pressing even closer. 

 

Say what you want about Bucky’s people skills, his kissing skills are second to none.  

 

Their mouths slide together with ease, once Bucky’s more relaxed, countering each other in the kind of perfect dance that only people who have been kissing for ages seem to reach. He and Bucky have been sparring and shooting together for months now, so even though Bucky doesn’t go on missions, they have a camaraderie and shared awareness that’s clearly translating.  Bucky nips at Clint’s lower lip, and Clint opens his mouth with a low moan, letting Bucky slide his tongue inside and chase the sound. Bucky mostly tastes like the beer they’ve been drinking, but his mouth is hot and wet and  _ persistent _ . Clint is breathing raggedly and he’s hard enough to pound nails before he knows it.  

 

“Fuck,” he manages, dragging his mouth away to nip along Bucky’s jawline.  His face is scratchy with a couple of days worth of stubble, and it makes Clint’s already-sensitive lips feel tingly.  “Can see why you were so popular, back in the day,” he adds.

 

Clint feels the resultant huff of laughter under his palms, where his hands have migrated from yanking on Bucky’s shirt to smoothing under it, touching the warm skin of Bucky’s back, and when had that happened?

 

“I think,” Bucky says, slowly, and now his mouth is mirroring Clint’s, trailing along his throat just under his ear, “this is maybe a little familiar.”

 

“Yeah?” Clint breathes.  “Good.” He pushes Bucky’s shirt up further, so he can access that much more warm, bare skin.   

 

Bucky leans back and Clint’s about to apologize, but all the other man does is reach behind his head and yank his t-shirt off, tossing it aside.  

 

Clint can’t stop staring.  It’s not that he hasn’t seen Bucky shirtless before -- hell, the whole team has seen him shirtless at some time or another -- but never in this context, with the flush of arousal high on his cheeks or his breath coming in hitching gasps because of Clint.

 

“Fuck me,” Clint says, reverently, reaching up to thumb at Bucky’s nipples and then dragging his hands even lower over washboard abs.

 

“That’s probably a too little far for our first time,” Bucky says, grinning and smug like the bastard he is sometimes.  “Maybe on the third date.”

 

“If this constitutes a date, we’ve been dating for months,” Clint argues, only half paying attention, distracted by all the dirty thoughts in his head.   He doesn’t wait for Bucky to reply, just yanks him back down for more kissing, wrapping one leg around Bucky’s waist so they’re pressed together as tightly as Clint can manage. The bulge in Bucky’s pants is getting promising.

 

Bucky’s hands are pulling at Clint’s shirt now, shoving it up and under his armpits, and then his mouth leave’s Clint’s to venture lower, pressing teeth into his clavicle and then swiping a tongue over his nipple.  

 

“Aw hell,” Clint says, panting up at the ceiling.  “What’s acceptable first date limits? Pretty sure we’re already on second base, and I’m considering stealing third.”

 

Bucky snorts against Clint’s chest, mouth on the other nipple now. “What’s third base?”

 

Clint squints at nothing and tries to remember exactly what the bases had been when he was young and trying to score.  “Oral?” he says, tentatively. “I think it was oral.”

 

The sound Bucky makes should probably be illegal, a kind of cut-off needy whine, and Clint lifts his head to look down at where Bucky is pressing his forehead into Clint’s chest and breathing hard.  

 

Oh.  _ Oh _ .  It’s like that.  

 

Clint grins.

 

He shoves, gently, at Bucky’s shoulder, until the other man crawls off of him, managing to drag his entire body across Clint’s burgeoning erection.  Clint glares at him, biting back the sound he wants to make, and Bucky smirks before leaning back into his corner of the couch, still shirtless and flushed and looking good enough to eat. 

 

“You’re an asshole,” Clint informs him, but he sits up anyway, scooting until he’s between Bucky’s conveniently spread knees. 

 

“Little bit,” Bucky agrees.  “That’s not new.”

 

And it’s really not, but this context is new, and this situation is new, and in the context of this situation, Bucky being a bit of an asshole is  _ fucking hot _ . 

 

“So was that a yes on the oral?” Clint asks, reaching out to run the ends of his fingers lightly across the soft skin above Bucky’s waistband.  Joggers are loose in the crotch by design, but Bucky’s… interest in their activities is still evident, if not exactly impressively showcased. 

 

“You askin’ to blow me?” Bucky says, and he looks a little surprised at the suggestion.  “Thought this was supposed to be about me decidin’ if I was interested in that sort of thing, not you.”

 

Clint holds his hands up in surrender.  “Hey, you don’t want a blow job, you don’t gotta.  I’m just offering.”

 

“Who the hell says no to a suckjob?” Bucky asks, disbelieving, but he’s still watching Clint warily. 

 

Shrugging, Clint goes back to touching Bucky, but keeps his hands carefully around shoulder level, only dipping down to brush his thumbs across Bucky’s nipples, where they tighten under his touch and Bucky sucks in a hitching breath.  

 

“You don’t gotta reciprocate,” Clint says, eventually, wondering if that’s the problem.  “I just really wanna get my mouth on you.”

 

Bucky seems to consider this, watching Clint with dark, hot eyes, and then finally nods.

 

If Bucky decides later this whole being into dudes thing isn’t for him, at least Clint’ll be able to say he blew Bucky Barnes. Maybe there  _ used _ to be a few people who could say that, but they’re probably all dead, so Clint might conceivably be the only living person who’s blown the one and only James Buchanan Barnes.  

 

He bites back a grin at the thought, before slowly dragging his hands down Bucky’s chest to the ties of his pants.  He undoes the knot and tugs a little at the fabric, until the waist loosens up enough that Clint should be able to pull them out of the way with ease. 

 

“Still good?” he checks, but a glance at Bucky’s face really tells him all he needs to know.

 

Bucky is flushed all the way down his throat, sucking his lower lip into his mouth between his teeth, and looks thoroughly debauched already, even though Clint hasn’t even touched him.  

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and his voice is low and hoarse and  _ fuck _ no way is Clint getting out of this with all his emotional pieces intact.

 

Well.

 

Too late now. 

 

Clint reaches for the waist of Bucky’s pants, pulling until he’s got it far enough down to reveal tight, white briefs and  _ holy god _ .  

 

White briefs had always been a thing of jokes, growing up.  Something your mom bought you in an economy pack at the store - assuming you had a mom, anyway.  Something to be mocked and made fun of and  _ holy fuck _ was Clint not laughing now. 

 

The reason Clint hadn’t been sure whether Bucky was into it or not is because his cock is currently being strangled to death by thin white cotton, and it is utterly  _ obscene _ the way the bulge looks in those briefs.  

 

“Jesus fuck,” Clint says, trailing his fingers over what is honestly an impressive bulge.  “Isn’t that uncomfortable?” He doesn’t look up to see Bucky’s reaction, focused instead on the way his cock is twitching under Clint’s light touch, the way Bucky’s abs are clenching and unclenching and his breath keeps getting caught in his chest. 

 

“It ain’t comfy,” Bucky grinds out, sounding equal parts annoyed and aroused.  

 

“I bet,” Clint says, still distracted, and reaches for the waistband of those too, dragging it down Bucky’s thighs with his joggers, until they’re both tangled around Bucky’s knees but out of Clint’s way. 

 

“Jesus  _ fuck _ ,” Clint says again.  

 

Bucky’s cock is a gift to mankind and it is a complete travesty that it was in the figurative hands of Hydra for seventy years instead of out in the world, spreading happiness and orgasms. It is large, thick and uncut, and darkly flushed with arousal, the head peeking out over Bucky’s foreskin and damp with precome.

 

“Thought it was the kissing that made you popular,” Clint says, wrapping his hand around the girth and grinning when his fingers and thumb only  _ just _ meet. And Clint doesn’t have what anyone would consider small hands.  “But I’m bettin’ it was this.” He drags his hand up once and then back down in a slow, smooth glide. 

 

Bucky makes a choked noise.  

 

Clint glances away from where he’s got his hand wrapped around the world’s most beautiful dick to look at Bucky’s face, and wow is it worth it.

 

His head is leaning back against the backrest, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief, and he’s watching Clint from underneath his eyelashes, just the glint of his gaze showing.  Clint repeats the same motion, and Bucky squeezes out another groan, something wanton and lusty that makes Clint’s mouth water. Clint slithers to the floor, popping the button his jeans to give himself some room, and settles on his knees at Bucky’s feet. 

 

He’s still got a hand on Bucky’s dick, and Bucky’s still watching him with a combination of want and wariness that has Clint’s pulse jumping in his throat.  “You don’t like something, you let me know,” he reminds Bucky, who nods a little, some of the caution leaving his expression.

 

Clint leans forward and drags his mouth against Bucky’s cock, lingering anywhere that gets him a twitch or a grunt.  It’s been a while since Clint’s had a dick in his mouth anyway, much less one with Bucky’s… proportions. He’s gonna ease himself into it, and if that means that he gets to tease Bucky a little along the way, well that’s just a bonus.  

 

Besides, there’s every chance Bucky will never want to do this again, regardless of how good Clint’s oral skills are, so he fully intends to make this the best blowjob of Bucky’s admittedly long life. 

 

Clint wraps his lips around the head, still flushed and peeking out, and sucks gently, waiting to see how Bucky reacts.

 

He is not disappointed by the jerking response, Bucky’s hips thrusting upwards and then abruptly stopping as Bucky seems to realize it’s bad manners.  Clint grins as much as he can around the mouthful, and sinks even lower. He pushes foreskin back with his lips and gently, oh-so-gently, flicks his tongue against the exposed and sensitive nerve endings beneath. 

 

Bucky jumps again, and then Clint feels calloused fingertips threading through his hair.  He moans around the cock in his mouth, and Bucky makes a wrecked noise over his head. 

 

Clint starts moving, bobbing up and down slowly, swallowing convulsively and diving a little deeper with each pass, until Bucky’s dick is far enough into his mouth to make breathing difficult, to make tears prick at his eyes, and then Clint takes a deeper breath and pushes farther, swallowing past his gag reflex until Bucky is lodged deep in his throat.  Clint holds him there for a beat, long enough for Bucky to make another low, wounded sound, until Clint’s brain is screaming for air, and then he eases up, sucking hard with his cheeks hollowed out.

 

“Oh fuck,” Bucky groans.  Clint hums in response.

 

He does it again.

 

And again and again, until Bucky can’t seem to control the way he’s rocking into the contact, until Clint has as much of his dick as he can swallow down his throat and is delighted to find there’s still some he  _ can’t _ work in there.  Clint swallows dicks like he swallows swords -- with the kind of enthusiasm that is liable to leave him seriously injured. He sincerely, devoutly, deeply hopes this isn’t a one-off, that Bucky will want to come back again and again and maybe, one day, let Clint sit on his dick until both of them come.

 

But that’s not for today.

 

Today is for making Bucky feel good, giving Bucky something amazing to remember, now that Hydra’s not electrocuting all the good things out of his life.  

 

“Oh  _ fuck _ ,” Bucky says again, and his hand is tightening in the short hair at the back of Clint’s head, fisting it and releasing it convulsively, and Clint knows he’s close.

 

He slips off of Bucky’s dick with a lewd slurping noise, reaching to take him in hand, spit for lube, and gives an experimental twist.

 

Bucky’s hips nearly fly off the couch in response, and he lifts his head to stare down at Clint with a punch-drunk, destroyed look on his face. 

 

It’s almost enough to make Clint come in his pants.

 

Almost.  

 

He mostly just wants to see Bucky’s face though, remind Bucky just who it is expertly sucking his cock.

 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. Almost like he can see the gears turning in Clint’s head, and tightens the hand still buried in his hair. Clint leans into it, feeling his arousal ratched that much higher.  He leans back in, sucking Bucky’s cock back down, and really gets into it. He’s not teasing, not anymore, just working his mouth and his jaw and his tongue in a concentrated effort to get Bucky off as spectacularly as possible. 

 

“God,” Bucky stutters, and any cockiness he’d been harboring before Clint got going is now gone, his entire body vibrating under Clint’s hands and mouth.  “Oh, oh shit.” The fingers in Clint’s hair tighten almost to the point of pain, and Clint moans loudly in response. He relaxes his mouth and throat, let’s Bucky hand and hips steal the show, fucking up into his face.

 

“Oh  _ fuck _ , Clint, fuck I’m-”  

 

Clint appreciates the warning, but he doesn't really need it.  Bucky’s thighs are tight to the point that all the muscles are standing out in relief, his stomach is clenched, and he sounds as wrecked as is possible for a human being able to form words.  Clint taps out the ‘OK’ sign against Bucky’s hip, and sucks hard, his cheeks hollowed out and waiting. 

 

The sound Bucky makes is downright pornographic, just fricatives and garbled noise as he clenches his fist and pushes Clint down onto his cock, almost to the point of choking, and then  _ explodes _ . Clint swallows and swallows, mouthing at Bucky’s cock until he shivers and pushes Clint away, gentle but firm. 

 

Sitting back on his heels, Clint wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins up and Bucky, whose eyes are still closed and whose breathing is still ragged and too-fast.  

 

He’s got a hand down his own pants, cupping his cock and giving serious consideration to jerking himself off while he waits for Bucky to recover when Bucky’s eyes open, laser-focusing on Clint with his hand in his pants and a flush on his cheeks. 

 

“Get up here,” Bucky growls, and Clint scrambles to comply. 

 

Bucky slaps Clint’s hand away as he climbs up, straddling Bucky’s thighs with his jeans riding low on his hips and his cock half hanging out of his boxers.  Instead, Bucky replaces Clint’s hand with his own, stroking with the firm surety of someone who’s  _ definitely _ done this before, and probably not only to himself, all while dragging Clint down for a kiss of mind-blowing intensity.  

 

Clint whines into the kiss, his own hips thrusting into that tight grip, and his thighs trembling. 

 

It is an embarrassingly short amount of time before Clint is teetering on the edge of orgasm, his fingers digging into Bucky’s shoulders with his forehead pressing into Bucky’s as they pant together.

 

“Aw hell,” Clint manages, his hand drifting down to clutch at Bucky’s bicep.  “I’m gonna come.”

 

“That’s the idea, Barton,” Bucky says, and then he captures Clint’s nearly slack mouth in a kiss as Clint paints them both white.

 

“Jesus,” Clint says, some time later, when he’s resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder and feeling loose-limbed and indolent.  “Jesus,” he says again, brain unable to process how they’d gone from playing video games to getting off on his couch.

 

Bucky chuckles, something low and self-satisfactory about it that makes Clint itch to wipe the smug right out of him.  

 

“So what’s the verdict?” Clint asks, eventually, when they’re sprawling out on the couch, shirtless, with their pants only marginally more intact.  

 

“Overall positive outcome,” Bucky says, turning a little so that Clint is tucked in a little closer and he can reach the television remote.  “Needs more empirical evidence.”

 

Clint snorts a laugh, tucking his nose up against Bucky’s jaw.  “Yeah? That mean we need another year’s worth of dates to make it to home plate?”

 

“Nah,” Bucky says, eyes flicking over the TV guide listings.  “Just take me to dinner.”

 

“Done,” Clint says, reaching for his phone.  “I can order pizza.”

 

***6 months later***

 

Natasha rolls her eyes at the banging on her door, setting aside the book she’s just found time to start reading and the glass of wine from Pepper’s personal stash. 

 

“Why,” she asks no one in particular, “can I never take a bubble bath in peace?”

 

Wisely, FRIDAY doesn’t answer her. 

 

“What?” she calls, loudly enough to be heard through the bathroom door and into the living room, if her visitor is who she suspects it is.  Using her toes to push the tap, she runs a bit more water in the tub, replenishing the bubbles and protecting her modesty from other people’s sensibilities.  

 

Steve appears in the bathroom only to promptly slap his hand over his eyes.  “Jesus, Nat, you coulda warned a guy.”

 

“You could have chosen to refrain from interrupting my personal time,” she retorts, lifting the wine glass and eyeing him over the edge of it.  

 

He’s flushed from the top of his forehead to the collar of his shirt, which Natasha finds distinctly amusing.  

 

“What do you want?” she asks, instead of torturing him further. 

 

“I just -- I’m --”

 

Natasha isn’t sure she’s ever seen him at such a loss for words.  It is, at least, mildly entertaining.

 

“Out with it Rogers, or I’m going to get out of the tub.”

 

She sees his throat work as he swallows.

 

“I’ve been trying to set Bucky and Clint up for months,” he admits, the words coming out in rush.  “I’ve tried everything - I’ve set them up on dates and sequestered them in rooms and sent them on missions alone together and nothing is working.  I need your help!”

 

She can’t hold back the bark of laughter that escapes her throat.

 

“What?” he demands, finally dropping the hand from his face.  “Why is this funny? I’m trying to  _ help _ . They could be so good for each other!”

 

Natasha rolls her eyes.  “You’re an idiot. Bucky moved his things to Clint’s floor last month.”  She picks up the book she’d abandoned when he knocked, fully intending to ignore him until he leaves.

 

There’s a few moments of absolutely stunned silence, and then Steve leaves without another word, turning on his heel without so much as a goodbye.  Natasha smirks at her book, where no one can see her, and makes a mental note to remind Clint he owes her fifty bucks at the next opportunity. 

 

He’d bet her that Steve would notice Bucky relocating within a few days of the move, and then stubbornly insisted that Steve  _ had _ noticed and was just tactfully not mentioning it for the last twenty-six days.

 

“FRIDAY,” Natasha says, conversationally.  “You got all that, correct?”

 

“Absolutely, Agent Romanoff.”

 

“Excellent.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Claraxbarton who absolutely always supports everything I do and loves me unconditionally, even when what I do involves sausage jokes and present tense writing. I love you bby, you are the best. 
> 
> Further shout out to the Lesbian Sounding Experts (you know who you are) and also Michelle, who gave this a quick run through for SPaG since I took for-fucking-ever to finish writing it. Y'all also support my absurdity and that means the world to me. 
> 
> Also the sword-swallowing comment is all Michelle's fault too, for the record.


End file.
